Barbour County index. [volume] (Medicine Lodge, Kan.) 1880-current, 1887-12-21
MEDICINE LODGE. KANSAS, WEDNES DECEM 1887.



cautioned Aunt Betsey. at appears as II
it really wasn't done raining yet. We
may have another wet SPELL Do the
chores as nice as you can, for, IL nothing
happens, your Uncle Abram will come in
the midnight train"
The boy did his work with a light heart,
aud made every thing neat and tidy for
the deacon's inspection. Then he lay
down upon his bed with his clothes on, to
be ready to welcome him when he came,
and was soon asleep.
Aunt Betsey, too, slept soundly, in spite
of her anxiety.
Suddenly Frank started up. His room
was filled with a red, Pickering light, and
the little window towards the river elowed
strangely. Just then the great clock down
stairs struck eleven heavy, measured
strokes. He sprang from the bed and has.
tened to the window; then he recoiled,
with low cry of horror.
The railroad bridge was on fire, and
Deacon Thomas was to come on the mid.
night train.
There was not time to go to the lower
bridge, two miles further down the river,
and In moment his plan was made. He
stole softly downstairs, snatched his
skates from the nail behind the kitchen
stove, and crept out at the back door. He
didn't awaken Aunt Betsey. Maybe she
would not know until all was safe. Her
room was on the other side of the house,
away from the fire.
Swiftly he ran along the road to the viii
lage, quarter of a mile away.
The will ayers were gathered upon the
shore in excited groups. The women were
weeping silently, and the men talking in
eager, low tones.
h.
thicker than window-glass, and the under
ice IS worse than none at all; it is so
rotten and full of air-holes. God help
them, for we can't! The train is almost
due now. Deacon Thomas is on board,
too. they say"
"And so is my son." 1t was Squire
Davis, the richest man in the village,
that spoke. "Are you men to let them
die before your ewes: There must be
some way. Tll give thousand dollars
TO the one that stops that train. God! |!
are You all towards. There they come
uoww
mot towards, squire, but it's certain
death to cross that ice, and we can't go
round by the lower BRIDGE" answered a
voice firmly, as the red, glowing headlight
OF the coming train rounded a curve two
miles away.
the train after they pass the last curve"
groaned the squire, as he sank down upon
his knees and covered his face.
"See! See"
"Who is ityu
ale can't do itW
'Yes, he will, it's boy!"
Squire Davis staggered to his feet and
looked eagerly toward the river directed
by many pointed fingers.
A slender form was darting from the
shore. across the thin ice, that bent under
his flying feet. A brave, boyish face
looked resolutely forward in the light of
the burning bridge.
"It's the deacon's boyw Only that one
cry, and the crowd waited with bated
breath, ana the Squire uttered a silent
prayer for his success.
The rumblinC OF the train could be
heard above the ere ckling of the flames on
the further shore. Cnce his skates broke
through the thin ice; he stumbled, nearly
fell, recovered himself, and sped on with
redouhled speed; then the groan on shore
was succeeded by faint cheer, hushed al.
most before begun.
He reached the opposi ite shore in safety,
snatched off his skates, climbed the slip
perry bank, and ra N along the track to-
wards the bend, swinging his cap above
his head.
Would they heed his signal?
There was a short, sharp whistle of dan
ger, confusion of voices, hurried eager.
ness to down the brakes" and the puff
ing engine moved slower and slower, and
at last stopped within a few feet of the
burning bridge.
The passengers rushed out excitedly,
and shuddered at their narrow escape.
And there was no happier one among them
all than Deacon Thomas, who stood proud.
ly by Franks side as he modestly told his
story.
ut would have been awful" he con-
cluded, with a glance at the groups of
passengers, and a shuddering look at the
river. fifty feet below, "but didn't think
of any one but you, Uncle Abram. 1 felt
as If must stop the train and save you"
The train went back to the station it had
| just left, and the passengers were taken
to the village by the teams which came to
them by the lower bridge.
When Frank and the deacon reached
the house, Aunt Betsey was still sleeping,
and knew nothing of the dsath which
threatened her husband, and which had
been averted by the brave, prompt action
OF the boy to whom they had given the
only real home-lOve he had ever known.
"And now, wife, don't suppose it will
do any good to laugh at you about these
dreams. You'll believe them more than
ever" he said, when the story was told.
"Ireally shall, Abram, )" she replied, with
tears in her eyes and then she placed a
hand on Franks head in a silent blessing.
"Well, we'll, no matter. But l think
there is no danger, now, that our boy
will even prove ungrateful. Tomorrow
We will take him down to Squire Davis
and give him legal right to our name, and
to inherit this old homestead when we
are done with it,"
"Oh, Uncle Abram-" began Frank.
mot q word, my boy. We shall always
bless the cold, rainy night that broug ght
you to our door. You shall be our son.
and-and-if you could call us father and
mother"-
He finished the sentence, it is true, but
the words were not audible, for Franks
arms were around his neck, and Aunt Bet
sey's arms were around them both.
Deacon Thomas and his wife are old
now, very old, but they have a safe haven
of rest in the protecting love of their
''son," the friendless lad who came tc
| their door when only one among the many
unhappy souls of the Lords poor"
And the deacon takes no truer pleasure
| than in talking of his boy, and telling this
| story to the little ones that cluster around
his knee, and give him the name OF
''Grandpa."-The american.
CURIOUS EPITAPH.
The Story nm n Torhstoca vvhfc,, r.u.